


Fairy Lights

by BelleGeorgia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bittersweet, Conversations that should have happened, Gen, M/M, Mentioned Mary Morstan, PTSD, Pining, Series 3, Short Drabble, and baby Watson, but hopeful, kill me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 02:16:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13731009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelleGeorgia/pseuds/BelleGeorgia
Summary: After many weeks, John finally goes to visit Sherlock after his wedding. Sherlock seems surprised to see him, and isn't that just painful.





	Fairy Lights

**Author's Note:**

> Just an old painful Sherlock drabble I found on my phone that was influenced by fairy lights and frustration…

John enters the living room silently. The room is dark except for a glowing mass of dotted lights on the floor. Sherlock is sat crossed legged in the middle of the room and hunched over a pile of tangled fairy lights. They illuminate his face, pinched in concentration as he tries to untangle them, the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips. John smiles at the sight, his usually harsh friend looking so childlike in the dim lighting as he tries in vain to untangle a large knot by holding up one end of the wire and shaking it vigorously.

He’s missed this, John realises suddenly. He’s missed Sherlock.

“Hey.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up, and his eyes go wide for a second when they land on John.

“John.”

He sounds surprised. Which is to be expected. John hasn’t come round in weeks.

“What are you doing?” John asks softly, stepping into the room. He feels like the space is in a state of delicate calmness, the darkness and the small lights creating an intimate atmosphere he doesn’t want to break. He sits down on the floor opposite Sherlock, mimicking his pose.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock’s asks immediately, but his voice is as soft as John’s, as if he is reluctant to disturb the peace of the room too. “Is Mary okay?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine,” John frowns a little. Sherlock doesn’t say anything, he looks a little confused as if there is no reason for John to be here unless he needed help. John feels a horrible pang in his stomach. Has it really been so long since they have seen each other? Have things really changed so much between them?

“What are you doing?” John asks again, nodding down at the lights.

Sherlock gives him a look that says ‘obvious’ and John smiles.

“Untangling fairy lights, I know, but why?”

Sherlock glances down at them and huffs out an irritated gust of air. “It’s for an experiment but they won’t corporate.” He aims the last word angrily down at the lights, as if they can hear him.

John chuckles and reaches down to help him. They really are knotted badly. After a few minutes of silent unraveling, Sherlock glances up again.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

John doesn’t look up. “Of course. Can’t I come and see you without a reason?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply for a second before saying in a rush, “No, of course you can! That isn’t what I meant, not at all, I just wasn’t expecting you-But it’s fine! I mean, it’s nice to see you. I just…” he trails off, noticing he’s rambling and promptly snaps his jaw shut.

John feels an odd mixture of amusement and guilt. The latter wins and he sighs. “I’m sorry I haven’t been round-”

“No it’s fine!” Sherlock interrupts, his voice unnaturally chipper. “You’ve got the baby coming and-I wouldn’t expect you to-I can’t imagine how busy you are.”

John’s eyebrows crease together as he watches his usually eloquent friend stumble over his words. Sherlock doesn’t meet his eyes. John lowers his again and continues his task before noticing something on the back of Sherlock’s hand.

“What happened to your knuckles?”

Sherlock starts a bit and glances at his hand, flexing his fingers in and out of a fist as the bloodied scabs shift with his bruised skin.

“Oh. I don’t know. Think it happened while I was asleep,” he mutters causally.

John frowns at the throwaway comment, wondering what on earth Sherlock had been dreaming about for him to have punched something so hard he cut open his knuckles while he was sleeping and didn’t even notice. John takes a deep breath.

“What happened to you?”

“Honestly, John, I woke up like-”

“No. I mean while you were away. What happened to you?”

Sherlock finally looks up, eyes a bit wide but brows furrowed.

They’ve never actually talked about what he had done while he was ‘dead’ since the day of his miraculous return. And John had been so angry at the time, he hadn’t really been listening. Never even really wanted to know. But with the peaceful air, the dark room and Sherlock’s face soft in the dim light, he suddenly realises he needs to.

When Sherlock doesn’t reply, John continues, “You were so…” he shrugs in lieu of an insult, “Before. And when you came back you were,  _are_ …different.”

Sherlock stares at him for a moment before taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “I guess. While I was away. I realised how much I-cared about..” he glances around the room as if trying to find the right word in the shadows, “People. You.” He swallows and glances back at John before quickly lowering his eyes, “And I was selfish. I didn’t realise how much I had hurt you until I came back and-I don’t know. I just didn’t think you would…” he trails off again, looking pained.

“Care?” John supplies.

Sherlock exhales a heavy breath. “To a degree, I suppose. I don’t…” he shrugs, not finishing his sentence.

John watches him, he waits for the old anger to bubble up inside of him but it doesn’t appear.

“Why didn’t you think it would hurt me? Why didn’t you think I would care?”

Sherlock let’s out an huff of irritation and his eyes dart towards the ceiling. “John…”

“No, no I’m not attacking you,” John reassures gently, “I just…why didn’t you think I would care?”

Sherlock seems to really consider the question now he knows John isn’t trying to start a row, and he pauses for a long moment before saying in a small voice but with utter conviction, “Because no one ever has.”

John stares at Sherlock’s lost expression and feels his heart break. He swallows down a lump, he knows Sherlock truly means it. When he doesn’t reply, Sherlock continues.

“And then, well you were engaged and—I just wanted you to be happy. After everything. After I ruined everything.” He gives a small causal shrug that is a contrast to his sad face and picks up the fairy lights again and John  _hates_ himself.

Sherlock doesn’t tell him about Serbia that night. About how he can’t sleep for more than two hours before he wakes himself up because he’s screaming, or because he’s raised a hand to defend himself and knocked over a glass, the resulting smash like a gunshot or a crack of a belt in his mind.

He doesn’t tell John how it aches to see him and Mary together. How it’s _physically painful_ but that he would rather live with the pain himself than cause anymore hurt.

He doesn’t tell John he loves him. Not that night. Or the next.

But when John tells Sherlock he loves him, a great many nights after this one, Sherlock says it back.

Then says  _everything_. 


End file.
